


terrifying. beautiful. unattainable.

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Daddy Kink, Developing Relationship, Gun Kink, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Second Person, POV Stiles, Stiles Has Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 21:10:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15033392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: The truth is you have a very specific type. Terrifying, unattainable, impossibly beautiful people.





	terrifying. beautiful. unattainable.

**Author's Note:**

> _  
> __  
> __I saw_[this ](https://areiton.tumblr.com/post/175190848972)earlier and this happened. I don’t know, y’all. 

Chris Argent threw you into a wall, the first time you had any real interaction with him.

He threw you into a wall, his long lean body holding you there effortlessly while you spit accusations that made his eyes flicker with guilt and uncertainty.

The next time you see him, he’s helping kill a psychotic murderer and his sister, and things don’t get any better for a long time, really.

But it’s after Gerard and the basement–after you’ve slipped back in and cut Erica and Boyd free, while Chris stood by the staircase and watched you, his gaze heavy and guilty, that things change.

 

~*~

 

The truth is you have a very specific type. Terrifying, unattainable, impossibly beautiful people. Lydia was your crash course in that, Derek was the high school education you never asked for and Chris Argent–

Chris was your fucking graduate program because very few got as terrifyingly beautiful and unattainable as he did.

Maybe Peter, but you try not to think about  _that_.

You try not to think about Chris, too.

 

~*~

 

“Stiles.”

The familiar rumble makes you freeze in the midst of selecting apples, and you look up. Chris is frowning at you, but it’s softer than his usual frowns, the ones he gives Scott–it’s almost  _gentle_ , and his fingers are light as they brush against your cheek. “Your bruises are gone.”

You nod, lick your lips and ignore the way his hunter’s gaze tracks the move like prey. “Yeah, well. No one’s beat me up recently. I thought you went to France.”

Chris shrugs. “Business. Allison and Lydia are with family.”

You stare at him because you have no idea what to do with that. The apples seem ridiculous but you’ve held it so long it seems almost worse to let it go. Finally, Chris steps back and nods. “Be careful, Stiles. It’s dangerous in the woods.”

~*~

You don’t tell Derek he’s back, just dump the lunch–including the fucking apples–on the table and let the werewolves attack it while you glare at the map and wonder what the hell Chris might know.

 

~*~

 

You wait three days, but Peter is increasingly hard to predict, and Derek is almost feral when Isaac vanishes from his patrol–and still you have no idea where Boyd and Erica are.

Derek doesn’t understand the need in you to find them, the way it burns like an imperative in your gut, a urgency that Derek tries to understand, but can’t.

Chris looks at you when he opens the door, and you stare at him, wide eyed and helpless and desperate.

“I need your help.”

 

~*~

 

He feeds you.

You don’t expect that. You feed people–your father, his deputies, Scott, Derek and his ragtag pack. You take care of them, when they so often to take care of themselves.

But Chris takes one look at you and mutters a curse, before steering you to a seat at the table and rattling around the kitchen. He comes back with a thick sandwich and a glass of juice, and he drops them with a gruff, “Eat.”

You stare at it stupidly, because you aren’t sure when the last time someone made you food. Then you pick it up, and eat and pretend you don’t see the way Chris relaxes and smiles, the tiniest pleased twitch of his lips before he looks at the map you laid out.

 

~*~

 

The things is–you have a type. Terrifying and beautiful and utterly unattainable.

And you know that Chris is all of those with enough of a daddy vibe that it makes you a little anxious because you love your father, and don’t have that particular set of issues.

Except, maybe you have the kink.

Because Chris.

He texts you when you’re out at night, patrolling with Derek or Peter.

He makes you eat, when you’re at his house for information.

He drags you to the gun range and teaches you how to fire, and when he realizes you’re actually damn proficient, something like heat had flickered in his pale eyes before he nodded and shoved you into his gym to spar.

He’s terrifying, except he’s not, he’s sweet and never laughs at your jokes, but his lips twitch like he wants to.

He’s beautiful, especially when you wake up on his couch and find him nearby in a soft black shirt and softer sleep pants, his tattoos peeking under the sleeve of his shirt.

He’s utterly unattainable, except that he is always there, even when you don’t ask for him to be, always watching you, always taking care of you and he always tells you that he’s happy to help, that he  _wants_ to help, and you see the way he watches you when you drink the glass of water he passes to you, the way his breath goes sharp and hot, his eyes dark and lust blown, when he has you pinned to the mat.

He’s everything you’ve ever fallen for, and more, and it’s intoxicating.

 

~*~

 

It’s perfect, until it’s not.

You call him because you don’t know who else to call. Peter is torn up from his run in with one of the Alphas earlier in the day, and Derek is sleeping for the first time in five days, and you aren’t sure how to explain a dead kelpie to your dad, or why you’re bleeding and half drowned–so you call Chris.

He’s furious. But he disposes of the kelpie and bundles you into his Tahoe.  He’s silent as he drives you home, silent as he shoves you into his shower and silent as he stitches up your side, but his hands are so gentle it makes you want to cry.

He stares at it, for a long time, the long ugly gash on your side, the bruises that are beginning to molt your skin.

“I don’t like seeing you hurt,” he admits, his voice low and rough and–

You think of that moment, when he shoved you into a door, and threatened you, shoved his gun in your face, and how he is different now, a man you trust, a man who would never hurt you,  and you let your fingers brush against his cheek. His breath catches and then, tension breaking  like a cut wire, he nuzzles into the touch, lips soft against your palm, beard rough against your skin.

“I’m ok,” you whisper, and he makes this noise, awful and choked, and you pet his hair. Repeat it. “I’m ok.”

“You won’t be. One day, baby, you’re going to get in to deep, and you won’t be ok.” His eyes are red rimmed and terrified, and he stares up at you, and you can’t speak because it rolled off his lips so damn easy, like breathing, and he doesn’t even realize.

“You’ll keep me safe,” you say, because you are very sure that Chris would sooner die than let anything hurt you.

His eyes squeeze shut, and he presses his head into your thigh, shaking for a moment while you pet his hair.

“Can we go to bed?” you ask softly, and Chris stills, impossibly still. You teeter there for a moment, but you think, maybe you  _don’t_ –maybe you’ve been fallen for so long you forgot when you actually fell. “Daddy? Please, can we go to bed?”

Chris shudders, and stands, and he’s dragging you, but it’s gentle, his hands careful not to hurt you or your jar your stitches as he pulls you to his bed.

 

~*~

 

Chris is beautiful. You’ve known that. But watching him naked, leaning over your body, whispering soft, sweet promises–that’s different. That’s a kind of terrifyingly beautiful you didn’t know existed.

“What do you want, baby?” he asks, after he’s blown you and you’re whining and clutching at his shoulders.

“You,” you say simply, spreading your legs. “Please?”

He stares, his gaze so hungry that if you didn’t still feel the ever gentle caress of his fingers, you might actually worry.

“I can’t. You’re stitches, baby. You’ll hurt yourself.”

You sulk and shift, and he helps you, until you’re straddling him. You rock down against him and he shudders. “Doesn’t hurt like this. You won’t let me get hurt, will you, Daddy?”

His grip goes tight on your hips, for just a moment, and then he kisses you, gently, and reaches for the lube.

“Never, baby.”

 

~*~

 

He fingers you so gently it makes you sob, and guides you onto his thick cock, murmuring praise as you gasp and squirm. “So good. You look so good, baby boy. You’re just taking it. God, like you were fucking made for my cock, baby. Shh, slow, go slow.”  

You whine, petulant and he laughs, thrusts a little and you groan, sinking into it. His mouth is on your nipple, licking and sucking while you ride him, and you gasp when he fists your cock, and strips you, the rough pressure you beg for the only hard touch he gives you.

“Gonna come, baby boy?” he murmurs. “Come for me, you’re such a good boy,  _come_.”

You whine when you do, grinding down as he shudders and gasps through his climax.

 

~*~

 

After, when you’re slumped sleepy in his bed, he spreads your cheeks and licks you clean, and rubs your sore ass when you whine, and his gruff praise sings like a balm across your skin.

You think about his fear, the worry in his eyes that you’ll get hurt. That he won’t be able to keep you safe.

You curl closer, and sigh.

You’re almost asleep when he murmurs, his voice sadder than you’ve ever heard, “Don’t make me lose you too, baby boy.”

 

~*~

 

When the nogitsune smiles, dark and taunting, and Chris stares like he’s seen a ghost, grief already etched into the lines of his face, and you scream in the silence of your mind, you realize–this is everything he’d every feared.

**Author's Note:**

> I know. The ending kinda knocked me on my ass. But I think there will be a companion piece, if that helps. 
> 
> Come talk to me on [Tumblr](http://areiton.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
